


Somewhere Down Below

by jane_with_a_j



Series: Somewhere Down Below [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abduction, Aziraphale gets slammed against a wall, Aziraphale isn't scared, Aziraphale needs a rescue, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is so stressed out by all of this, Daring escape, Fake seduction, First kiss under less than ideal circumstances, Flaming swords and other divine weapons, M/M, Protective Crowley, Things get awkward, Violence (but mostly offscreen), Wings, brief hinting at threats of rape/non-con, but that's not where this story is going, listen guys I know that fake seduction stories are usually a one-way ticket to smutsville, there's lots of other fun stuff though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-21 12:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_with_a_j/pseuds/jane_with_a_j
Summary: What's a Prince of Hell to do when he wants to get ahead in the infernal hierarchy?  Poach a few high performers from his rivals, naturally.Asmodeus has his sights set on luring a certain Serpent of Eden away from Beelzebub's team.  And he knows just the thing to offer as an incentive.Or: Aziraphale has suddenly found himself being held hostage in Hell.  He's not worried, though.  Crowley will save him.  Crowley always saves him.  Unfortunately Crowley's plan to buy them some time is going to make things a bit ... awkward.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Somewhere Down Below [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559299
Comments: 137
Kudos: 377
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	1. In Which Crowley Receives an Unasked-For Favour

“... and to top it all off, we have a special reward for you.”

Crowley was suspicious. When dealing with Hell, it paid to make a habit of being suspicious. It would, as they said, be a funny old world if demons went around trusting each other.

That being said, when a Prince of Hell and his favourite associate showed up on your doorstep offering you a commendation, you didn't drag your feet. You went with them, even if you _had_ been planning on popping by to visit your favourite angel that afternoon. Scratch that, _especially_ if you had been planning on popping by to visit your favourite angel that afternoon.

“Special reward,” said Crowley, trying to sound enthusiastic as he followed Asmodeus and Nyx through the dank corridors of Hell's Head Office. “Sounds fantastic.” It probably wasn't. Demons, by and large, had no imagination and no taste. Although Crowley had to admit that these two were better dressed than most. “What is it? Desk by the window?” (Like all infernal agents, Crowley did, in fact, have a desk at Head Office. One of the advantages of being posted as a full-time field agent on Earth was that he didn't have to use it.)

Nyx scowled at him and muttered something under her breath.

Asmodeus just smiled, showing off a row of flawless white teeth. “Better,” he said. “It's a surprise,” he added.

It seemed to Crowley that they had been walking for a very long time. Not that he generally spent a moment longer than he needed to Downstairs, but he was fairly sure he'd never been through this particular maze of corridors. He was also fairly sure they'd passed through some sort of portal three turns back. Nothing suspicious about this, nope, not at all. His human-shaped body was definitely not starting to sweat. And if it was, it was probably just the heat. In the Basement, the ventilation system is always malfunctioning.

They turned a corner and entered a hallway painted in a pale, institutional green, lit by guttering fluorescent lights and lined with identical unmarked white doors. Each door had a narrow viewing slit set just a bit above eye level, and sigil-enforced locks on the handles. It was spooky, and not in a good way.

“My surprise reward is a visit to a locked ward?” said Crowley.

“Your surprise reward is just down that way,” said Asmodeus, a wicked smile on his lips. “Room three.”

The doors weren't numbered, but the Prince was clearly pointing to the third door on the right. Crowley swallowed.

“Shall I go and take a peek, then?” he asked. But Nyx was already sweeping toward the door, her black feathered gown trailing along the floor behind her. The sigils on the door handle lit up at her touch, and the door swung open. She entered, with Asmodeus behind her. Crowley followed.

His first impression was that the room _stank_. Not that Hell didn't always smell, a bit, but this was worse than he was accustomed to. This was a smell of pain and rot and other things that demons were supposed to enjoy, but that Crowley had always found a bit nauseating. The walls were grey and water-stained, the floor hard, cracked concrete. The overhead light buzzed and flickered in an irregular rhythm, just barely illuminating three figures in the corner. Two demons, one red-eyed and dark-skinned, the other long-haired with sallow skin so pale it was almost green, were perched on either side of a third figure, pinning it to the floor. Crowley felt the blood drain from his face at the sight of tan fabric and white feathers.

_Aziraphale_.

“What is this?” he heard himself ask.

“Your greatest enemy,” said Asmodeus. “We know how much trouble he's caused you, all these centuries. We thought you might be interested in a bit of revenge.”

“Huh,” said Crowley, forcing himself to take a step forward. “That, uh, that's very, um. Very thoughtful, guys.” _Shit shit shit_.

At the sound of Crowley's voice, the angel had stopped struggling and gone very still. Slowly, he raised his head and turned it toward Crowley. There was a purplish bruise spreading across his cheekbone, and golden blood matting his blond hair. When he met Crowley's gaze, his eyes lit up for just a moment, before they narrowed, ever so slightly, his mouth settling into a grim line.

_Don't look at me like that,_ Crowley wanted to say. _I never asked for this!_

“Why's he on the ground?” he asked.

“You don't like it, seeing him like that?” Crowley did not like the tone of Nyx's voice.

“I prefer to look my enemies in the face,” said Crowley, which was not at all true. When it came to his actual enemies, Crowley was, in fact, a big fan of sucker punching them and then running away very very fast. “Let him up.”

The two demons who were holding Aziraphale down looked up at Asmodeus for confirmation. The Prince nodded. They immediately let go and jumped back, giving the injured angel a wide berth. Crowley could see now that the pale one had a bruise to match Aziraphale's, spreading across her cheekbone in a near mirror-image. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling at the sight. His angel had put up a fight.

Aziraphale lay where he was for a moment, then pushed himself up onto his knees before sitting back on his heels. A set of heavy manacles bound his wrists. Runes engraved into the iron glowed with a faint, reddish light. The chain that bound them together limited his range of motion, but the runes were the real restraint. They ensured that there would be no convenient angelic miracles as long as he wore them.

“Hello, Crowley,” he said. His tone was flat, giving nothing away.

“Angel,” said Crowley, his tone equally expressionless. _I didn't want this, you know I didn't want this, don't you?_

“I'm afraid your friends here have rather interfered with my plans for the morning,” said Aziraphale.

“Sorry to hear it,” said Crowley. He forced himself to smirk. Aziraphale responded with a very convincing glare. “Get up,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale hesitated a moment before getting to his feet. Crowley circled him, slowly, trying to appear intrigued rather than worried, looking for any more evidence of injury. The angel's wings were out, which under the circumstances was probably not a good sign, but they appeared unharmed. The sleeve of his sky-blue shirt was torn, his ridiculous little tartan bowtie was askew, and his trousers looked as though he'd been dragged through a gravel pit. Some of the blood in his hair had run down the side of his face and was staining his collar. He stood straight, shoulders squared, but Crowley had known him long enough to be able to tell that he was favouring his right leg a little. Crowley paused, looking at the angel thoughtfully, then, abruptly, he grabbed Aziraphale by the back of his collar and shoved him face-first against the wall.

It was a rough shove, but not as rough as he hoped it had looked. Crowley leaned forward, his body half-hidden between Aziraphale's wings, his lips just a fraction of an inch from the angel's ear.

“What the Heaven is going on here, angel?” he hissed, his voice pitched low so that none of the other demons would hear it.

“How the devil should I know?” Aziraphale hissed back. “These are your people, not mine.”

Crowley pressed him harder against the wall. “I didn't ask for this,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”

Aziraphale made a wordless noise that conveyed _of course I know that, you dunce_ with surprising eloquence.

“I'm going to find a way to get you out of here,” Crowley whispered. “That's a promise.”

“I believe you,” Aziraphale whispered back.

“Right,” said Crowley, then, with another more-dramatic-than-rough shove, he released the angel and took a step back. “Here's the problem,” he said, turning to face the other demons in the room. “I had no idea this was coming, yeah? You lot thoroughly surprised me. Well done, by the way.” He looked back at Aziraphale, who had turned and was leaning against the wall, looking very pale and very serious. “My problem is this,” Crowley babbled. “You don't get an opportunity like this every day. I've got my, my ... my mortal enemy here, and I can do whatever I want to him. Very exciting, very... um. Very something. Point is! Point is, I need to give it some thought. Want to make the most of it, yeah?”

“So you aren't going to do anything to him just yet?” Nyx frowned. “How very ... dull.”

“You soft on this angel, Crowley?” Asmodeus's tone was mocking, but there was something hard in his eyes.

“Soft? Me?” Crowley scoffed. “M'not soft. Just, like I said. Don't want to waste this opportunity.”

“Oh, come now, Crowley,” said Nyx. “You don't want to give him just a little taste of what you might have in store for him?” She advanced toward Aziraphale, who was watching her nervously. “I know what I would do,” she said, shooting a pointed look at Asmodeus. “I always have the same thought whenever I see an angel.” Her voice had taken on a singsong quality. “Ever ... since ... I ... Fell.” On the last word, one reached out and grabbed hold of Aziraphale's right wing. “Such pretty feathers,” she said, dragging her thumb roughly across a row of coverts. “Such fragile bones.” She squeezed then, and a sickening crunch filled the room as radius and ulna were crushed in her grip. Aziraphale gasped. His knees buckled for a moment, but he remained standing.

As intently as Nyx was watching Aziraphale's reaction, Asmodeus was watching Crowley. He hoped his face hadn't given him away. He allowed himself a split second to think about how he ought to react. Then he hissed, and glared at Nyx.

“You ssssaid he was mine,” said Crowley.

Nyx turned to look at him, an inscrutable smile on her face.

Crowley allowed a little whine to colour his words. “Mine, to do with as I please.”

“And you would prefer not to break his wings?”

“If there are wingsssss to be broken, I'd prefer to be the one doing the breaking.”

Nyx took a graceful step back. “By all means,” she said. “He has another wing.”

Crowley looked from Nyx to Aziraphale, whose right wing was now trailing limply behind him. He looked back at Asmodeus, who was eyeing him appraisingly.

This was a test of some sort. Had to be.

“Oh, come now, Crowley.” Crowley's turned back at the sound of Aziraphale's voice. The angel's jaw was set, his eyes gone very hard. His skin was ashen, the only indication of how much pain he must be in. He _sneered_. Who would have guessed the angel was even capable of a sneer? “What are a few broken bones between _old friends_?” Aziraphale said. “Go, on, do your worst.” His tone was defiant, but his words... Crowley understood exactly what Aziraphale was trying to tell him. He met the angel's eyes and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

“If that's what you want,” he said, striding forward and seizing delicate wing bones in both hands. _I'm sorry, angel._

“Do it,” said Aziraphale, when Crowley hesitated. Crowley tightened his grip, and ... pulled. He felt the bone snap. A clean break, or so he hoped. A pained little yelp escaped from Aziraphale's throat, and he sagged forward, half-leaning against Crowley's shoulder. “I'm okay,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. Then he pushed away, straightening.

“You're looking rather rough, angel,” said Crowley. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“An excellent idea,” said Aziraphale, unable to hide the strain in his voice. “Perhaps you'd be so kind as to bring me a chair?”

“Funny,” said Crowley. He turned back to the other demons. “Have I passed your little test?” he asked. There was venom in his voice that he didn't bother trying to hide. “Because if I have, I'd like to take a little time out here, and give some thought to what I'd actually like to do with my new toy.”

“As you like,” said Asmodeus. A slight smile sat at the edge of the Prince's lips.

One by one, the assembled demons filed out of the little cell. Although it pained him not to, Crowley didn't look back.

As soon as the door was shut and sealed behind them, Asmodeus dismissed the others. The two nameless demons followed in Nyx's wake as she swept off down the hallway and out of sight.

“You think we were testing you,” said Asmodeus.

“Are you implying that you weren't?”

“A secondary consideration,” said the Prince. “Come with me.”

Crowley followed him, past the rows of unmarked doors and around a corner, to where a great stone archway stood. They passed through the archway into a small chamber, containing a heavy stone desk, a rather imposing throne, a scattering of ornate plush couches, and a great deal of deeply unsettling artwork. The effect would have been one of overcrowded, sadistic decadence but for the flickering fluorescent lighting, which made the whole thing feel just ... seedy.

“This is your office, then?” Crowley had never seen it before. Never had reason to. He didn't report to Asmodeus; he reported to Beelzebub. Yet another reason why this was all so strange.

“It is,” said Asmodeus. He reached under the desk and withdrew a bottle. “Care for a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, he snapped his fingers and called up two glasses. He poured out the dark red wine and handed one to Crowley. Crowley sniffed it suspiciously. Just wine. He took a tentative sip. It was a decent vintage, if a little bit sweet for his taste.

“So,” said Crowley. “What is this really all about? I get the feeling you want something from me.”

“Nothing yet,” said Asmodeus. He took a sip from his own glass. “But I've had my eye on you, Crowley. I have an eye for ... taste. I respect a demon who takes care of himself. Too many of our kind are content to walk around covered in grave dirt, smelling of mildew, or worse.”

“And?”

“As I said,” said the Prince. “I don't want anything from you yet. I'm just hoping you'll remember this one day.”

So that was his game. An unasked-for favour, leaving him with an unspecified debt.

“It's generally not done,” said Crowley, “snatching angels from the street, or whatever it was that your people did.”

Asmodeus arched an eyebrow at him. “No,” he said. “It isn't.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “But maybe it should be.”

Interesting. Crowley met the Prince's gaze levelly, but didn't speak.

“So,” said Asmodeus. “Have you decided yet what you're going to do with your angel?”

“I'm going to have to think about it some more,” said Crowley, trying not to bristle at _your angel_. Aziraphale _was_ his angel, bless it, but not like _that_. “Won't hurt to keep him waiting,” he added. “Let him have some time to worry about what's in store for him.”

“I know what you want to do to him,” said Asmodeus, a sly smile curving his lips.

“Do you?” Crowley was once again starting to sweat with the effort of trying to keep his cool. Or maybe it really was just a problem with the heating system down here.

“It was obvious from the moment you two laid eyes on each other,” said the Prince. “I could smell it.”

“Smell it? Smell what?”

Asmodeus gave Crowley a wicked grin. “Not so surprising really, given the way two of you have been pursuing each other all these centuries,” he said.

“What?” Crowley could feel panic rising in the back of his throat.

“Lust,” said Asmodeus.

_Oh, fuck._

The ability of your average, everyday demon to sense sin is overstated. If they're actively looking for sin, most demons can find it, but it takes some effort, and without context clues, most of them can't tell exactly what sort of sin they've found.

Asmodeus, however, was not an average, everyday demon. Not only was he among the highest-ranking demons in Hell; he was a specialist.

Demon of Lust.

“You look ... surprised,” said the Prince.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

Asmodeus studied him for a moment, then let out a loud, full-throated laugh. “Oh, don't tell me,” he said.

“Wh– what?”

“Oh, how positively delicious,” said Asmodeus. “It wasn't coming from _you_.”

“I– what?”

“Crowley,” said Asmodeus, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. “If the lust I sensed wasn't coming from you, it must have been coming from the angel.” He giggled. _Giggled_. “The angel wants to fuck you. Or maybe he wants it the other way around, hmm?”

Crowley's mouth opened and closed a few times. Asmodeus's original assumption about the source of the lust had been the correct one, of course. Crowley had been having ... _thoughts_ ... about Aziraphale for a very, very long time. But if Asmodeus couldn't tell...

And there it was. Not a plan, exactly, but a cracked door, with a light shining through the crack, hinting at the possibility of a plan to be found somewhere beyond it.

Crowley plastered on a big, toothy smile. “Is that so?” he said.


	2. In Which Aziraphale is Not Afraid

Aziraphale was ... uncomfortable.

The manacles that were blocking his access to miracles didn't seem to have an effect on the rapid healing typical of angels. Under other circumstances, that might have been a good thing, but here, it was a problem. The breaks in his wings hadn't been set properly before the bones had started to knit. The result was a crooked partial healing that, while considerably less painful than a fresh break, still hurt like the dickens if he moved either wing the wrong way. If he concentrated, he could still pull them in and vanish them, but all that accomplished was to leave him with a referred pain that throbbed all through his upper back and radiated down his right arm. It wasn't worth the effort.

His head wound had scabbed up, which was good, except that he had no way to clean the dried blood out of his hair, and it _itched_. At least his cheekbone was feeling less tender. He hadn't tried to stand for any length of time since the demons had left him, but he thought his leg felt better, too, and that was something.

It was _hot_ in this dank, smelly little cell, except when it was cold, and at the moment, he couldn't think of a single thing he had ever seen, in his nearly 6000 years on Earth, that was as annoying as the irregular flicker of the fluorescent lighting.

Given the state of his wings, the most comfortable position he had been able to find was to lie face down on the floor with his wings spread out behind him, but given that his hands were shackled in front of him, it wasn't all _that_ comfortable, and every so often, he had no choice but to brave the pain and sit up for a bit, just to keep his arms from falling asleep. The concrete smelled dreadful, anyway.

And to top it all off, with nothing to do but twist around attempting to get comfortable ... he was bored. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a good book and a tin of biscuits right now.

In spite of his predicament, Aziraphale wasn't inclined to despair. The way he saw it, one of two things was bound to happen. Either Heaven would find out what had happened and secure his release, or Crowley would break him out.

If he was completely honest with himself, he didn't have high hopes regarding the former possibility. Given the infrequency with which he generally filed his reports, it could be quite some time before Heaven even realized he was missing, and once they did, the odds that they'd even consider that he might have been abducted by agents of Hell were probably rather slim. There were rules of engagement that both sides had always respected – thwarting the other side's plans was expected, of course, and if someone were to end up discorporated in the process, well, that was fair game as well. But an unprovoked abduction... it was very nearly unthinkable. If Heaven did discover what had happened, there would be consequences. Probably. But that would require Heaven to discover what had happened.

Crowley, on the other hand... it didn't even occur to Aziraphale to doubt that Crowley would find a way to save him. Crowley always saved him.

He hadn't planned it that way, the first time, back in France. He'd simply been hoping to avoid having to perform the kind of miracle that would attract attention. If he hadn't been able to talk his way out of the Bastille, he _could_ have miracled himself to safety. Gabriel wouldn't have been pleased, but better an unauthorized miracle than a discorporated body. But then Crowley had turned up, and saved him the trouble, and, well. Truth be told, it had been rather thrilling, allowing himself to be rescued like that. And although the demon would never admit it, Aziraphale was quite sure that Crowley got a little thrill himself out of playing the hero.

This situation was different, of course. Aziraphale pushed himself up, gingerly, into a sitting position, and inspected the manacles that bound him. There was no way to miracle these away. And as for talking himself out of this... no, that would never work, not with these demons. The danger was real, this time. And yet, Aziraphale didn't feel afraid at all. Hadn't done, since the moment he'd heard Crowley's voice. Crowley would get him out. He was sure of it.

And then, just as if the thought had summoned him, the door opened and Crowley sauntered in. Aziraphale did his best to keep his expression neutral. Crowley was alone, that seemed like a piece of luck.

“Right,” said Crowley. “First things first. If I'm going to be spending my time in here, this simply won't do.” He clicked his fingers, and a plush black sofa appeared. Another click, and there was an end table. Then a lamp, that gave off a warm, steady light, despite the complete absence of anywhere it could be plugged in. Another click, and a bed appeared, covered in a satiny red bedspread. It was too much furniture for a space this small, but Aziraphale had never minded a cluttered room. It was a vast improvement over bare concrete floors, in any case, even if the colours were not what he'd have chosen. He looked up at Crowley for some clue as to what was happening, what he was meant to do next, but Crowley was just looking back at him, eyes hidden behind his ever-present dark glasses. After a moment, Aziraphale got carefully to his feet and, wincing as the movement jostled his wings, shuffled over to the sofa. It took him a moment to find a position that didn't aggravate the pain, but eventually he settled. Crowley was still watching him, his face inscrutable.

“So,” said Aziraphale, “Hell is kidnapping angels now.”

“Just you,” said Crowley. He hesitated a moment before crossing the cell and dropping down onto the sofa, sprawling into Aziraphale's personal space.

“Um,” said Aziraphale.

“Alright, listen,” said Crowley, his voice low. “I'm not sure yet exactly what's going on here, but I've worked out a few things. There's some kind of power play happening. Asmodeus is trying to win over some potentially like-minded demons to his side, I assume so that he can unseat Beelzebub as second in command down here.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale, keeping his voice low to match. “So you're telling me that I'm here because he thought–”

“That a chance to get revenge on my, er ... my mortal enemy would be the kind of favour I'd appreciate, yeah.” Crowley grimaced. “He wants to do things differently. Get more ... aggressive, I suppose. Against your lot.”

“Crowley, that's–”

“Don't– they're probably watching. Hard to be sure down here. Be careful how you look at me.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “You're a very scary demon and I'm terribly frightened of you right now, is that it?”

“I _am_ a very scary demon.”

“A very scary demon who is currently sprawled on this sofa just as if we were back at the bookshop with a bottle of wine.” He did his best to keep his amusement from showing on his face. A twitch of his wounded wing helped, as he found himself gritting his teeth against a sudden bolt of pain. “Although,” he said, “you don't usually sit quite this close.”

“Funny you should mention that,” said Crowley. “I have good news and ... well, not _bad_ news, but, ehhh, awkward news?”

“Oh?”

“Asmodeus thinks you've got the hots for me.”

“Oh,”said Aziraphale. Oh, dear. This _was_ awkward. “Um. Why does he think that?” He had rather hoped no one could tell.

“Ehh, ah, I dunno,” said Crowley. “It's, ah, he, well. He's a specialist, you know. Demon of Lust. Bit of a one-track mind. What's the expression? When all you've got is a hammer, everything looks like it wants to get nailed?”

“I don't think that's exactly how that expression goes,” said Aziraphale.

“Close enough,” said Crowley. “Anyway, it's a good thing.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Why is that, exactly?”

Crowley turned over and leaned in, so that his face was just inches from Aziraphale's, flashing a wide, reptilian grin. “Because I'm going to seduce you.”

“I beg your pardon?” He could not possibly have heard that right.

“Nah, listen,” said Crowley. “It's a good plan. Well, part of a plan. A plan to buy me some time to figure out an actual plan.” He pulled back, just far enough to give Aziraphale some breathing room, but not so far that his voice would carry. “They brought you here expecting me to be all keen to torture you. On account of you being my nemesis and all.”

“I don't–”

“Wellllll, I'm a creative sort of demon, and Asmodeus's, er, assumption, gave me an idea that's so much more fun than any tedious bone-snapping, or feather-pulling, or whatever it is that these idiots expected me to do. I'm going to _win your trust_.”

“You–”

“Oh, you won't make it easy for me. I'm going to have to work very, very hard, and it could still end up taking a long time. You're far too clever to believe anything a wily old serpent like me would say, no matter how badly you want to.” He leaned in again. “But you do want to. And make no mistake, eventually you'll fall for my charm, and then–”

“You'll betray me in the cruelest and most humiliating way possible?”

“As far as Asmodeus is concerned,” said Crowley, “yes. But I intend to find a way to get you out of here before we get to that point.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale. He pursed his lips. “I can't say I like this plan,” he said, and there was a bit of understatement. “But I don't have a better idea.” He scooted back a bit, the way he might do if Crowley's proximity were making him nervous. “Where do we start?”

“Let me see your wings,” said Crowley. When Aziraphale hesitated, Crowley snapped his fingers imperiously. “Wings,” he said. “Now.”

“Well, now, really,” Aziraphale huffed–

“Just play along, angel,” Crowley hissed.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Right.” Before he knew what was happening, Crowley had grabbed him by the collar and somehow managed to manoeuvre him so that he was face down on the sofa, with Crowley half on top of him. The rapid movement had jarred his wings, and they _hurt_. He bit down on a whimper as Crowley ran a hand over the right wing, the one Nyx had broken.

“I can't fix this,” Crowley said. He made a sound in his throat that sounded like a growl. “Sloppy,” he said. His hand brushed against the broken spot, and Aziraphale winced. And then... the pain didn't disappear, not quite, but it was suddenly much lessened. Crowley ran his hand over the other wing, and the pain in that one disappeared entirely.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. He flexed his back muscles. “That does help. Thank you.”

Crowley moved to perch on the arm of the sofa and gestured for Aziraphale to sit up. The angel did so, carefully, still cautious of his wings.

“So,” Crowley drawled. “I did something nice for you, angel, how about you do something nice for me?”

“Um,” said Aziraphale. “Like what?”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Crowley. “I'm sure you'll think of something.” He grinned, showing off a lot of teeth. Far too many teeth. It looked like he was in pain.

Aziraphale stared at him. If this was his idea of a seduction act, it was rather unimpressive. Especially for a being who was usually so effortlessly sexy.

On the other hand, there was something rather endearing about how clumsy it was.

Oh dear.

\--

Within a couple of days, it fell into a routine. Crowley would come to visit him, engage in some poorly-calibrated threats and some awkward, vaguely creepy flirting, and then, just when Aziraphale was beginning to expect Asmodeus to come storming in, declaring that he was on to their little game, Crowley would lean in close so that he could, without being overheard, update the angel on what he'd found out, and Aziraphale would feel his heart skip an entirely unnecessary beat.

“Listen,” said Aziraphale on the third day. “There is a ... a favour I'd like to ask of you.”

“Ohhhh, a favour, is it?” Crowley raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Do tell.”

“Oh, stop it, you old serpent,” said Aziraphale, allowing just a hint of fondness to colour his voice. For show, of course.

“What's the favour, angel?”

“My hair,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley blinked at him over the tops of his sunglasses. “Your hair?”

“It's filthy,” said Aziraphale. “There's still blood in it.” He grimaced. “It _itches_.”

“Oh,” said Crowley.

“I can't miracle it clean, obviously,” said Aziraphale, holding up his manacled wrists, “and despite all of this furniture you've so thoughtfully provided, there's nowhere in here that I can attempt to wash it.”

“I'll conjure you up a nice bath if you like,” said Crowley, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“That won't be necessary,” said Aziraphale primly. Not that a proper, all-over wash wouldn't feel good right about now, but ... no. Definitely not. Not when who knows how many demons might be watching him at any time. No doubt the water would smell of sulphur anyway. “Could you just...” he shrugged his shoulders and widened his eyes plaintively, not bothering to finish the sentence.

“Ah,” said Crowley. “My pleasure, angel. Turn around.”

Aziraphale eyed him for a moment, then turned so that his back was to Crowley. His wings were tucked away, making it possible for Crowley to slide in very close. (his back only hurt a little, thanks to the painkilling miracle that Crowley refreshed every time he visited).

The demon could have simply vanished the old blood. A quick snap of the fingers. One and done.

Instead, he slid both hands up into Aziraphale's hair and began carding his fingers through it.

“You know,” he said, “I've always wondered what your hair feels like.”

“It feels crusty right now,” said Aziraphale.

“Mm,” said Crowley, applying some gentle pressure to his scalp. “Not for long.”

Aziraphale felt himself relaxing, closing his eyes, leaning into those long, clever fingers as they worked their way up from the nape of his neck, around the back and sides of his head, gently tugging at his hair as they went. The itch was gone, and this felt ... very pleasant. He sighed.

“Soft,” said Crowley, his breath hot against the back of Aziraphale's neck.

The angel's eyes flew open.

“What?”

He could _feel_ the demon's smile; that's how close he was. “Your hair. It feels soft,” he said.

“W– well, then, I suppose you've finished, “ Aziraphale stammered, pulling away. He turned to face Crowley, who was grinning at him like a cat who'd got several cartons of cream. “I– um.” He reached up and ran his hands through his clean, and, yes, soft hair. (It was a bit difficult, with the manacles, but he managed.) “I, ah. I should probably say thank you?”

“Like I said,” said Crowley. “My pleasure.”

\--

The bed, Aziraphale thought, was a bit much. Satin bedding, really? _Red _satin bedding? Terribly unsubtle. But it was possible that that was the point. And he couldn't deny that it was comfortable. He'd never been one for sleep, but with so little to do when Crowley wasn't there, he discovered that the occasional nap did help to pass the time. And he did feel a bit better, in general, when he was rested. Crowley had always sworn that sleep was restorative, and Aziraphale was beginning to think the demon might actually be right.

He hoped that this wasn't going to drag on for much longer. It was unpleasant, being down here, and the risk that their ruse would be discovered couldn't be denied. What would Asmodeus do to Crowley, Aziraphale wondered, if he knew that he was being deceived? It didn't bear thinking about. But Aziraphale, being Aziraphale, couldn't help thinking about it. Couldn't help _worrying_ about it.

He also couldn't help thinking about, well, about Crowley. If their whole scheme was bordering on farcical, the fact remained that there was something _there_, between them. That there had, in fact, been something there for a very long time, something more than just a secret friendship. Aziraphale didn't know, precisely, what it was, on Crowley's part, but as for his own feelings...

He closed his eyes, remembering another time he'd found himself being rescued, another time Crowley had played the hero. Maybe it had been the high drama of the scene – the darkened church, the double-crossing Nazi spies, the guns, the explosion – or maybe it had been the casual way Crowley had handed him his bag of books when it was all over, as though it had been a given, all along, that he would save them. Whatever it was, it had been enough to force a very stubborn angel to admit, if only to himself, that what he felt, what he had been feeling all this time, was love. Which was, all things considered, terribly inconvenient.

Aziraphale sighed and buried his face in a pillow. He missed the steady, comfortable predictability of his bookshop. His bookshop, where he didn't have to worry about what it meant that he had these feelings, about what would happen if those feelings weren't returned ... or worse, if they were.

Crowley had a plan. Crowley was working on a plan. Crowley would get him out of here, would save him, and then everything would go back to normal.

When he heard the door open, his first instinct was to bury his face deeper into the pillow. It wasn't that he wasn't happy to see Crowley again. On the contrary. He was entirely too happy to see Crowley again, and he needed a moment to compose himself. This was good, he reminded himself. This was all part of the plan. He was _supposed_ to be conflicted about his feelings for Crowley at this point. _It's all an act,_ he told himself. _You're putting on a show._

He pushed himself up and turned to face Crowley.

Only it wasn't Crowley.


	3. In Which Crowley is Definitely In Control Of the Situation

Crowley couldn't believe what he was looking at.

“These are divine weapons,” he breathed. This small meeting room was rarely used, true, but the display was still right out in the open. Swords, spears, daggers. A golden bow and a quiver full of arrows that glittered eerily in the flickering overhead light. He turned to Asmodeus and his companion, the sallow-faced demon who'd helped to kidnap Aziraphale. “How did you get these?”

“We picked them up, here and there,” said the sallow demon. She smiled broadly, and Crowley realized that her teeth were black.

“Trophies,” said Asmodeus.

“I'm... impressed,” said Crowley. Which he was. He didn't ask what had happened to the angels who'd once wielded these weapons.

“Beelzebub doesn't collect trophies,” said Asmodeus.

“No,” said Crowley, distractedly. “Not that I know of. Not their style, I guess.” His gaze flicked over to the Prince, and then back to the display, landing on a sword that resembled the one Aziraphale had given away, millennia ago. It wasn't the same sword – he'd actually gotten a pretty good look at it, while he'd been skulking around the Garden, spying on the angels sent to guard it – but it was of a similar design.

He needed to go and check on Aziraphale. He didn't like leaving him alone for too long.

“Tell me,” said Asmodeus, as if guessing the direction of his thoughts, “just how are things going with your angel?”

Crowley swallowed. _Be cool, be cool, be cool._

“I've got him _completely_ off-balance,” he said. “He has _no idea_ what to think.” A smirk now, yeah, that would be the thing to do. “It's ... cute,” he went on. “I'm tempted to see just how long I can keep him going.”

Asmodeus laughed again. His laugh was rich, velvety, and laced with cruelty. “Careful, serpent,” he said. “Remember that you're supposed to be the one doing the tempting.”

“Oh, I'm tempting all right,” said Crowley. _Ugh_. Had he really said that? He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so keen for a meeting to end, and he had been to a _lot _of infernal staff meetings. He forced himself to smile a very ugly smile. “Is there anything specific you need from me right now?”

“Eager to be someplace else?”

_Satan, yes. Anywhere else. Anywhere else at all._

\--

Crowley's mind was racing as he unlocked the door to Aziraphale's cell. The divine weapons were the key. Had to be. They weren't even locked up. Not that locking them up would be necessary. Demons couldn't wield them, couldn't even properly hold them for any length of time without getting burned. Having that many of them on display sent a message, and not just the obvious one. Someone had had to bring them down here, after all. Crowley shivered at the thought.

There had to be some way that this could help them. Maybe Aziraphale would have an idea.

Aziraphale was lying face-down on the bed, face turned away from the door, his wings out and tucked awkwardly around his sides. He was very still. Sleeping, maybe? It would be just like his angel to take up sleeping here, of all places.

“Evening, Aziraphale,” he drawled.

For a moment, Aziraphale didn't move. Then he lifted his head and turned to look at him. “Hello, Crowley,” he said.

It was something about his voice. Or maybe it was the way he moved, more stiffly than even that first day before Crowley had dulled the pain in his wings. Crowley wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew immediately that something was wrong. It took all of his willpower not to rush to Aziraphale's side. Instead, he sauntered over, slowly, keeping his eyes pinned to the angel's prostrate form.

That was when he noticed the left wing. Wings were not supposed to bend that way. There was a fresh break. No, not a fresh break. Two fresh breaks. And several missing feathers, including three primaries.

“Angel,” said Crowley, keeping his voice steady. “What happened here?”

“I, ah, I had another visitor,” said Aziraphale. “The demon in the feather gown?”

“Nyx,” growled Crowley.

“She is ... terribly unpleasant,” said Aziraphale. His voice was steady, but strained. Crowley knew that tone. That was Aziraphale's stiff-upper-lip tone. It was the tone he used when he was trying very, very hard to convince someone (usually himself) that he was okay.

Without thinking about what he was doing, Crowley ran his hand over Aziraphale's wing. Because the two new breaks were fresh, Crowley was fairly sure he could heal them.

“Crowley–”

“Shh, angel, I've got this,” he said. All he had to do was concentrate, and...

Aziraphale gasped.

_Shit._ “Sorry, angel, I–”

“No,” said Aziraphale, flexing the wing. “No, it's fine. It hurt for a moment there, I wasn't expecting that. But I think you fixed it.” He extended the wing, then pulled it back in. “Close enough, anyway.” He grimaced. “The original break is still a problem.”

“Nothing I can do about the feathers,” said Crowley.

“No,” said Aziraphale, wincing as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. “I suppose not. But they'll grow back eventually.” If Crowley hadn't known the angel so well, he might have missed the tiny pitch break in his voice on that last sentence. He could feel rage creeping up his spine.

“How dare she?” he snarled. “How _dare_ she?”

“Crowley.” There was a hint of warning, now, in Aziraphale's tone. _Don't forget where we are. Don't forget that they might be watching._

“You're _mine_,” Crowley snapped. Yes, that would do. That was an appropriate thing to say in this situation. “Who said she could touch you?”

Aziraphale shrank back. That was... was that part of the act? Or was his angel actually frightened?

“Is that all?” Crowley demanded. “Just the wing?”

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment. “No,” he said. “It isn't. I haven't actually looked yet, but...”

“What else?”

Aziraphale, his lips pressed into a grim line, began unbuttoning his waistcoat. With his wings out and his arms manacled, he couldn't actually take it off, but once it was open, he pushed it back and untucked his shirt. “Here,” he said, pulling his shirt up to reveal the beginnings of several very ugly bruises on his sides and his belly, all the way up and over his ribcage. “Might have a broken rib or two,” he said. “Hurts to breathe, so I've been trying to remember not to.” A wan smile. “It's a surprisingly difficult habit to break, once you've gotten accustomed to it.”

Crowley hissed.

“I'll be alright,” said Aziraphale. “It will heal.”

“She had no right,” said Crowley. “She... you're mine.” He took off his sunglasses and looked Aziraphale in the eyes. In the dull light, the angel's eyes were like the sky after a storm– deep blue-grey with a hint of light shining from behind them.

Crowley loved Aziraphale's eyes. It was nearly impossible for his angel to hide what he was feeling, because those expressive eyes always gave him away. Right now, what he could see there was trust, hazed over with pain. It was a strange feeling, being trusted like that.

“Mine,” he repeated. He laid a hand on the angel's exposed skin. “I'm going to try to heal it,” he said. “Fair warning this time. I'm not very good at this, so it might hurt.”

Aziraphale nodded once. Crowley shut his eyes, concentrating on what he was trying to do.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. His chest rose and fell under Crowley's hand as he took a deep breath and let it out. “Oh, that's much better. Thank you.”

When Crowley opened his eyes, Aziraphale was smiling at him. It wasn't the angel's usual sunbeam of a smile, but it was genuine.

“Did I hurt you?”

Aziraphale shook his head slightly. His eyes flicked up, over Crowley's shoulder, toward the door. “Do you think anyone's watching?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Dunno,” said Crowley, also keeping his voice low. “Usually I can sense it, but it's hard to tell, down here. I feel like I'm being watched all the time, even when I'm probably not.” He suddenly realized that he still had one hand up Aziraphale's shirt, pressed against soft, bare skin. He pulled his hand away, more reluctantly than he'd ever admit. He noted, with some satisfaction, that although the bruising wasn't entirely gone, it had skipped right over the angry, purple-red stage and was now a fading, week-old shade of yellow. “I'll talk to Asmodeus,” said Crowley. “Make sure Nyx doesn't come back.” _I'll protect you._

Aziraphale worried at his lower lip. “I'm not sure you should,” he said quietly.

“_What?”_

“I'm not saying that I want more of... of _that_,” said Aziraphale. “But you don't want to make an enemy of her, Crowley.”

“You–”

“Listen to me,” Aziraphale hissed. “She's angry. Jealous. I got to hear all about how she's been Asmodeus's loyal right hand for millennia now, and he's never given _her_ an angel to play with.” He shuddered. “If you go running off to tell on her, that's only going to cement her resentment. She'll start looking for ways to discredit you. To hurt you. If she figures out that we... It's simply too dangerous.”

“So I'm just supposed to let her come in here and rough you up whenever she bloody well feels like it?”

“It's not as if I want that, but–”

“Angel. No.” Crowley shook his head. “I'm not okay with that. And even if I were, it won't do to show weakness right now. If I roll over and let her take what's supposed to be mine, things will only get worse.”

“And what if Asmodeus gives her what she wants?” Aziraphale's eyes were wide. “What if he decides to kidnap another angel, to appease her?”

Crowley didn't care about other angels.

But of course, Aziraphale did.

And it wasn't as though Crowley would wish Nyx's tender mercies on anyone, not even a bloody Archangel. Well, except maybe Michael; Michael was a complete shit.

“Then what do you think I should do about her?” Crowley asked.

“I'm not sure,” said Aziraphale. He gave him a crooked smile. “You _might_ think of it as her having done you a favour.”

Crowley recoiled. “What the Heaven are you talking about?”

“What I mean,” said Aziraphale, “is that, at the moment, given ... everything ... I'm really feeling quite grateful that, if I have to be a prisoner of a demon, I'm yours and not hers.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“You've really taken very good care of me,” Aziraphale went on.

“Hng,” said Crowley.

“And right now I'm allowing you to sit far closer to me than I might otherwise have done,” the angel added. “On this ridiculous bed, no less.”

“...” said Crowley.

“At some point very soon,” said Aziraphale, “I'm going to remember that I shouldn't trust you, either. But... oh, get that look off your face, Crowley.”

“Gnh. What look?”

Aziraphale leaned in closer. “_You're_ supposed to be trying to take advantage of _me_, not the other way around.”

“Gnk,” said Crowley. “Maybe this is all part of my act.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “What, maybe I think you're cute when you're flustered? Really, my dear, is that the dynamic you want to go for?”

The angel was right, of course. Crowley paused for a moment to consider the possibility that Aziraphale was actually better at this, this fake seduction subterfuge, than he himself was. The thought stung his pride more than a little. And besides, Aziraphale was the one who was cute when he was flustered, they both knew _that_.

Right. Time to regain the upper hand.

He reached out and cupped Aziraphale's chin in his hand. “You're right,” he said. “Tell me again how grateful you are,” he added, grinning when the angel's eyes widened. Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but he didn't get the chance, because Crowley was kissing him.

Crowley had thought about it. Many times. He'd imagined kissing his angel in the park, in the back room of the bookshop, at some fancy restaurant. Beside the ocean. Under the stars. In the rain.

Never, not once, had he imagined doing it in Hell. Certainly not under circumstances like these. He shouldn't be doing it. Someone might be _watching_, for Satan's sake. The fact that someone might be watching was the whole _point_.

But for a moment, just for this moment, none of that mattered. The angel let out a soft, startled little noise, froze for a moment, and then... and then he was returning the kiss. His mouth tasted of cinnamon and pears and sun-warmed honey. And just for this moment, Crowley allowed himself to pretend that this wasn't all just an act. That this kiss was real. That it mattered. It was a bad idea, oh, such a bad idea.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, against the demon's lips.

“Mm,” said Crowley, “angel,” and kissed him harder, deeper. He had one hand buried in Aziraphale's hair, the other pressed against his warm, soft thigh.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated.

Crowley pulled away, just a little, the better to run a line of tiny, feather-light kisses up Aziraphale's jaw. Even after days locked up in this dank cell, the angel smelled like sunlight.

“Crowley. Exactly how far should we be taking this, right now?”

Ah.

Right.

Crowley nipped at the angel's ear. “Push me away,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Push me away,” Crowley repeated, swallowing down a lump of regret. Aziraphale already had both hands pressed against his chest. “I'm taking _liberties_,” murmured Crowley. “And you have just remembered that you don't like that sort of thing. That it makes you _angry_.”

For a brief moment, he thought Aziraphale might not do it. Then the angel shoved him, hard enough to send him sprawling backwards off the bed and onto the floor.

Sometimes Crowley forgot just how strong Aziraphale was.

He picked himself up and forced himself to smirk. Aziraphale's waistcoat was still unbuttoned, his shirt still untucked. His hair was mussed, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were wide and vulnerable. _Satan, he really is better at this than I am,_ Crowley thought. He sketched out a mocking bow. “Maybe some other time, angel,” he said, wondering if anyone was actually listening. Wondering how, at some point when this was all over, he could find the right words to apologize for having gotten carried away.

He was out the door and into the hallway before he realized that he had never gotten around to telling Aziraphale about the cache of weapons.


	4. In Which Aziraphale Does What Needs to Be Done

Aziraphale leaned against the wall beside the door to his cell. His wings were tucked away, and the pain in his back was beginning to – not _demand_ his attention, not yet, but certainly to _politely request _his attention – as the most recent refresh of Crowley's painkilling miracle started to wear off.

Crowley had finally managed to come up with a plan to get Aziraphale out of Hell.

And Aziraphale had refused to go along with it.

It wasn't that it was a terrible plan, as plans went, but it had a fatal flaw, and that flaw was this: it would be obvious, to any demon with so much as a single brain cell, that Crowley had had a hand in the escape. And that was simply unacceptable.

They had argued about it. Rather a lot. It had, truth be told, been a welcome distraction after that kiss. (Aziraphale was _not_ thinking about that kiss right now. He wasn't.)

Aziraphale had come up with a better idea. Crowley had refused to go along with it. _Too risky, angel_, he had said, by which he had meant too risky for _Aziraphale_. But Aziraphale was a stubborn angel, and he would rather stay down here forever than risk Crowley's safety.

(It wasn't that Aziraphale didn't like it when Crowley showed his protective streak. He did. Quite a bit. It made him feel all warm and tingly inside. But that feeling, as pleasant as it was, was simply not something he could afford to take into account right now.)

In the end, inevitably, Crowley had given in. Which was why Aziraphale was currently standing where he was, gripping the lamp the demon had so thoughtfully provided for him some days earlier, in both hands.

Nyx and her jealousy had been the key. (Well, that and Asmodeus's vanity. A cache of stolen divine weapons, left out on display in the open? Honestly.)

Crowley had looked vaguely sickened when Aziraphale had spelled it out for him.

Crowley was good at making deals. And so, he had struck up a deal with Nyx. He, Crowley, would refrain from going to Asmodeus and demanding she keep her hands off his angel, and in exchange, she would tell him exactly when she planned to make her next visit, so that he could properly take advantage of the situation, wink wink.

Ugh.

But the payoff? Now Aziraphale knew when to expect Nyx.

He'd have exactly one chance.

Right on schedule, the door opened.

Just as before, Nyx was alone. Aziraphale got a good look at her, this time, as she swept into the little cell. Lank black hair surrounding a deathly pale face, with flat, blue-black eyes and lips the colour of an old bloodstain. An angular body in a gown of black feathers. She was slight, but he knew that she was strong. And, unlike him, she had the full use of her powers, not to mention a full range of motion in her arms.

One chance.

Aziraphale hefted the lamp. Nyx only just had time to register his movement before he gave it a good, hard, two-handed swing, connecting with her head with a loud crack.

She stumbled back, but she didn't go down. Aziraphale swung the lamp a second time. This time, Nyx reached up and caught it with one hand.

“You _dare_,” she snarled.

“I do,” said Aziraphale. Before she could make a move toward him, he tucked his chin and ran right into her, leading with his shoulder. It wasn't elegant, but she wasn't expecting it, and he was able to step back again before she could grab him. In the process, he had knocked her back another couple of steps.

It was far enough.

Aziraphale was now between Nyx and the door – the door that she hadn't had time to close properly. A moment later, Aziraphale stood in the dim, flickering light of the hallway, smiling in grim satisfaction as the door automatically locked behind him. No one was around.

Crowley had tried, and failed, to find an exit route from this part of Hell that would avoid any areas that were likely to be crowded. The problem was, most of Hell was crowded most of the time. It was part of what made Hell so, well, Hellish. The immediate areas surrounding Asmodeus's offices were quiet – a deliberate choice on his part, presumably – but there was no way out of them that didn't run right through a busy hallway or overcrowded open-plan workspace. So making it to an actual exit was out of the question. Fortunately, there were other ways to get out of Hell.

Aziraphale counted the turnings as he hurried down the corridor, following the directions Crowley had given him, praying silently that no demons would unexpectedly turn up along his route.

Third corner. Turn left. Then right. Then pass the next two turnings, and then right again ... the layout down here was absolutely dreadful. It was no wonder Hell was so inefficient; there was no straight line between any two points, anywhere.

He rounded another corner and skidded to a stop. He was right in front of the stone arch that led into Asmodeus's office. He took a step back, eyes wide. There, leaning against an overstuffed leather chair, was Crowley. And there, leaned up against the desk, was Asmodeus. The Prince was looking right at him. Asmodeus stared for a moment, clearly taken aback by the sight of an angel running loose in the hallways of Hell. Then he lunged forward. Crowley lunged at the exact same moment, and the two demons managed to get in each others' way. Aziraphale turned and ran.

Aziraphale was not a particularly good runner at the best of times, and now, injured, with his hands manacled in front of him, his gait was awkward and too slow. Much too slow. He could hear footsteps behind him. He turned left, and then immediately left again. He ran straight down the dank, gloomy corridor, risking a glance back over his shoulder just as his pursuers came into view. Crowley was in the lead, Asmodeus close behind him.

Aziraphale slowed. Raised his head, as if listening for something, or trying to place a familiar scent. Yes, there it was. Crowley had been right. The demons probably couldn't sense it, not the way Aziraphale could. A distinct sense of holiness in the air.

As he ran toward the source of the feeling, a demon stepped out into his path. It was the dark, red-eyed demon who had ambushed him on the street outside his bookshop. The demon's eyes widened in surprise. Aziraphale didn't slow, didn't try to evade the demon, just barrelled right into him, knocking him down, kicking him in the face when he tried to grab onto the angel's leg, and then hopping away awkwardly, nearly falling over in the process.

It slowed him down. Crowley and Asmodeus were gaining on him.

But that was okay. He only had to make it a little bit farther, and then–

There it was. The source of the holiness he'd sensed. Inside a little meeting room, a rack of angelic weapons, out on display, exactly as Crowley had described. He grabbed the first one that came to hand, a sturdy but elegant dagger, just as Crowley ran into the room after him. Aziraphale lashed out with one foot, kicking Crowley in the shin, mentally apologizing as the demon stumbled forward. Aziraphale grabbed him, looping bound arms over Crowley's head, pulling him into an awkward hold. The entire lengths of their bodies were pressed together, and Aziraphale resolutely ignored that fact as he held the dagger to Crowley's throat.

“Stay back,” said Aziraphale, as Asmodeus entered the room.

Crowley made a strangled noise.

“I thought I sensed something holy,” said Aziraphale, eyes fixed on Asmodeus. “I thought you might be holding another angel hostage. But this is so much more convenient.” Asmodeus took a step forward. “No,” said Aziraphale, tightening his grip on Crowley. “I said, stay back.”

“Come on, angel,” said Crowley. “I thought we had something special. You don't want to hurt me, do you?” Aziraphale couldn't see Crowley's face, but he could _hear_ the manic grin in his voice. Asmodeus would probably interpret it as panic, but Aziraphale knew what Crowley sounded like when he was holding in a laugh.

“You have nowhere to go,” said Asmodeus. The red-eyed demon appeared in the doorway behind him.

“Back,” said Aziraphale. He shifted his grip on the dagger. With a flash and a crackle, it came to life, lightning flickering along the length of the blade. Oh, good. It was just as he'd hoped. The manacles blocked him from accessing miracles, but he could still properly wield an angelic weapon.

Crowley cringed away from the dagger. Aziraphale sincerely hoped it was just an act. Surely Crowley didn't think he would be careless with a weapon that could actually, truly, kill him.

A cold smile crept across Asmodeus's face. He took another step forward.

And wasn't that just typical. This Prince of Hell was willing to gamble with Crowley's life, even now, after trying so hard to win him over. Demons. Honestly.

(If it crossed Aziraphale's mind, in that moment, that he knew of an angel or two who would probably behave similarly if the situation were reversed, he didn't look directly at the thought. He was very good at not looking directly at thoughts like that. And now was not the time.)

Aziraphale moved quickly, then, twisting his wrist and forcing the tip of the divine blade into the clasp of the manacle on his opposite wrist. There was a crackle and a hiss and a small amount of smoke, and then the shackle popped open. The red glow faded as the dagger's light flickered and died, the divine power and the infernal cancelling each other out. Aziraphale felt a rush of warmth through his entire body as his access to Heaven's power was restored. A flick of his unbound wrist, and the second manacle popped off, the pair of them clattering harmlessly to the floor.

He released Crowley then, giving him a shove that sent him careening into Asmodeus. Before either demon could regain his balance, Aziraphale had shoved the now-defunct dagger into his belt, and grabbed a sword. The blade _whoomphed_ to life, its weight and balance nearly identical to another flaming sword, one that had been like an extension of his own body once, so long ago. Aziraphale shifted his stance. His swordsmanship was a bit rusty, but there were some things one never really forgot.

“Stay back,” he repeated. Asmodeus's smug expression didn't change, but he didn't advance, either.

“You're outnumbered, angel,” said Crowley. “If you put that sword down now, I might be persuaded to keep being nice to you.” There was a hint of a conspiratorial smile on his lips.

Aziraphale did his level best not to smile back.

Most angels and demons came and went from their respective head offices through the front door, and there was a reason for that. There was, too, a reason why transportation portals, while requiring a degree of preparation to use, were the second most popular option. There were secret entrances, too, officially rare but actually in fairly regular use, especially in Hell. The one thing all of these methods of travel had in common was that they required relatively little power.

The other option, direct teleportation across realms, was possible, but it required an extraordinary amount of power. Archangels could do it if they needed to, as could Princes of Hell, but for someone of Aziraphale's rank, it would have been a near-impossibility even had he been at full strength.

However, if he combined his own power with someone else's...

“You can't hold me here,” said Aziraphale. He locked eyes with Crowley and prayed that no one would be able to tell, once this was over and done with, what the demon had done. “I'm leaving.”

And on that last word, he drew down as much power as he could reach, concentrated as hard as he could... and for just a moment he thought it wasn't going to work and oh dear, what would he do then... but then he felt a boost, like a warm rush of strength from below, and with a flicker and a _whoomph_ of holy flame (and just a whiff of brimstone), he found himself staggering forward to land sprawled on a clean, slick, white floor. The sword was still in his hand, its flame extinguished. He raised his head and saw a perfectly elegant, perfectly simple pale wooden desk, and seated behind it, looking at him in astonishment...

Aziraphale had never imagined that it was possible to be so pleased to see Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer for me to get up than I had planned. Because it hates me. But luckily, the next chapter, which is more of an epilogue, does not hate me, so it should be up very soon!


	5. In Which Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid

Four weeks later, Aziraphale went to St. James's Park.

He was comfortably settled on a bench with a book and a tin of biscuits when a slim, dark figure appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and sat down beside him. Aziraphale didn't look up from his book.

“Are you sure it's safe to meet like this?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Nobody's watching. I can tell, up here.” Aziraphale had never asked how Crowley knew whether or not Hell had eyes on him at any given moment, but it had never occurred to him to doubt the demon's word on the subject. “So,” said Crowley. There was an awkward silence that lasted only for a moment or two. “How are the wings?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale sighed and rolled his shoulders. “Better,” he said. There was still a bit of pain, concentrated mostly in a spot just above his right shoulder blade when his wings were tucked in, but it wasn't too bad. “They had to rebreak them in order to set them properly. It was a few days before they let me out of the infirmary at all.” He grimaced. “They assigned me a specialist healer. She gave me exercises to do. Three times a day. And I have to check in with her weekly.”

“Sounds like fun,” Crowley said.

“Oh yes, tremendous fun,” said Aziraphale drily. “Almost as much fun as spending an entire day debriefing with a room full of Archangels.” He shut his book and drummed his fingers against its spine. “I left a few things out, of course. Gabriel seemed rather impressed when I claimed to have drawn enough power to make the jump directly into Heaven just from sheer force of will.”

“So he believed that?”

“It seems Gabriel has heard some rather impressive stories of the feats humans can perform when under extreme stress.”

Crowley snorted. “Did anyone remind him that you aren't human?”

“I presume he was thinking in a more analogous sense,” said Aziraphale. “But yes, actually. Michael did.” He tried to keep his disquiet from showing in his voice. “I'm quite sure she has no inkling of what really happened, but ... she could tell I was holding something back.”

He risked a glance over at Crowley. The demon was half-sprawled on the bench, looking straight ahead. “What about you?” Aziraphale asked. “How did things play out... after?”

“The Dark Council,” said Crowley, “is currently investigating Asmodeus and his inner circle. Which is a bit tricky since Asmodeus is a sitting member of the Dark Council, and an important one at that. Knowing the bureaucracy of Hell, they should be making a decision about what to do about his _unauthorized activities_ within the next century or two. In the meantime, I'm still reporting to Beelzebub.” His dark glasses were slipping down his nose a bit, and he pushed them back up. “I can't tell if dear Lord Beez is pleased with me for helping to bring some trouble down on their rival, or pissed at me for associating with him in the first place.”

“Does anyone suspect–?”

“Seems not,” said Crowley. “If anyone noticed that I was drawing power, they haven't said anything.” He shrugged. “If they do, I'll just tell them that I was trying to stop you. They won't suspect I was helping you. Why would they?”

Aziraphale sometimes wished he could be as confident as Crowley. But sometimes ... sometimes, he was glad he wasn't. Sometimes, he was quite sure that his caution, in the face of Crowley's recklessness, was the only reason they hadn't yet gotten caught.

Aziraphale decided to change the subject. “Listen,” he said. “I know you don't like my saying things like this, but I really must tell you ... thank you.”

“Shut up,” said Crowley. He gave a little sniff. “Wouldn't have been down there at all if it weren't for me,” he muttered.

“Oh, stop,” said Aziraphale. “We both know it wasn't your fault. And some good did come out of it.”

“Oh, well,” said Crowley. “So glad I was able to accomplish some _good._” He glanced over at Aziraphale at the same moment that Aziraphale glanced over at him. “What good?” he asked.

“The sword I took,” said Aziraphale. “I was able to return it to its rightful owner. A cherub named Elwen. Seems she lost it when she was discorporated during an altercation with an unknown demon in 1253.” He looked up at the sky, where the sun was hinting that it might possibly consider peeking through the clouds at some point that day. “She was grateful to have it back,” he said. “Came to visit me in the infirmary to thank me in person. Twice.” He couldn't help a smile. “She smuggled me in some cocoa.”

“Angel,” said Crowley. “It's nice to hear you have a fan, but you can't expect me to just sit here and be pleased that I played a part in returning stolen property. To an _angel_.”

Aziraphale ignored him. “The dagger was a different story,” he went on. His smile faded. “It belonged to an angel by the name of Lorieth. They haven't been seen or heard from since the fifteenth century.” He looked over at Crowley. “I don't suppose there's any chance...?”

Crowley turned to look at him, and shook his head slowly. “So far,” he said, “there's been no evidence that any other angels are being held captive,” he said.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. He hadn't been expecting Crowley to tell him otherwise. Michael had said outright that she had evidence suggesting that Lorieth was dead, truly dead, and had been for quite some time. But he hadn't been able to help hoping. He worried at his lower lip for a moment, then looked over at Crowley, and back down at his book. “It's a pity I didn't think to grab a few more of them,” he said.

Crowley made a little throat-clearing noise. “About that,” he said. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a slip of paper. He set it down on the bench and slid it toward the angel. After a moment, Aziraphale picked it up.

“Oh,” he said. “Crowley, how did you get this?” He was looking at a good-quality photograph of the display of divine weapons.

Crowley shrugged. “Spy camera,” he said. “Little miniature thing, easy to hide. Saw an advert in a magazine a couple years back. Thought it looked neat. Works pretty well, yeah?”

Aziraphale smiled. Crowley was terribly fond of his newfangled gadgets.

“I can't just take this Upstairs,” he said. “How would I ever explain how I got it?”

“Not my problem, angel. I'm sure you'll figure something out.”

Aziraphale tucked the photograph into the back of his book. “Thank you,” he said. There was really no way that Crowley could spin this as anything other than an act of goodness. Aziraphale had seen the records Michael kept of angels missing in action. To have answers about even a few of them...

“Don't mention it,” said Crowley. “I mean it. As far as I'm concerned, that picture doesn't exist.”

They sat in silence.

“Listen, angel,” said Crowley, eventually. “I, ah. I'm sorry about–”

“Don't,” said Aziraphale. “Don't apologise.” He turned his head and stared at Crowley until the demon looked up and met his eyes. “For any of it.”

“Right, but when I–”

“_Any of it_, Crowley.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Um. Okay. Right. So." He tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. "What do we do now?”

Aziraphale looked at him for a long moment, his heart aching over what he knew he had to say. “We should ... probably keep our distance for a bit.”

He thought of the way Michael had looked at him during the debrief. She wasn't the type to just let go when there were secrets to be chased down. “They're likely to be watching both of us more closely than usual, and I would prefer not to imagine what they might think if we were to be seen together.” He barely managed to get the words out. It had only been for a short time, but he had gotten accustomed to seeing Crowley every day, and in spite of everything, he missed that.

For a moment, Crowley didn't speak. Didn't move. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, right, that's ... that makes sense.” Aziraphale was quite sure he wasn't imagining the hurt in the demon's voice. The regret.

“I don't like to think about what Hell would do to you if they found out that you helped me escape,” said Aziraphale. The words were true, but they felt hollow. He wondered if Crowley could hear his own regret. Wondered if Crowley understood.

_I love you_, he wanted to say. _I love you and I'm fairly sure you love me, too, and I wish we could do something about it, but it isn't safe._

“Crowley,” he said instead. “I won't say it again if you don't want me to, but thank you.”

The demon didn't snipe at him, didn't tell him to shut up. He just nodded, once.

Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat and looked back down at his book, trying very hard not to think about surprisingly strong, gentle hands, and lips that tasted of spice and smoke. There had been truth in that kiss. He was sure of it. Someday, they would have to talk about that. Someday, when it was safe.

_And what makes you think it will ever be safe?_

Safer than it was right now, then.

“Right,” said Crowley. “Guess I'll see you around then, angel.” He stood up and brushed a bit of imaginary dust from his lapels.

“You know where to find me,” said Aziraphale, smiling weakly. “If, you know. If you ever need me.”

Crowley returned the weak smile. Then he turned, and walked away. Aziraphale watched him until he was out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so that ended on a sadder note than I'd thought it would. I'm sorry.
> 
> Just remember, they will get their happy ending eventually!
> 
> And if that doesn't cheer you up, please enjoy the mental image of Aziraphale enduring regular appointments with an aggressively cheerful celestial physiotherapist. Her name is Josephina, she insists on being called Jo, she's a specialist in wing rehabilitation, and she is embarrassingly fond of trite motivational platitudes. She may also have a burly assistant because why not.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented!

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, this story takes place sometime in the late 1950s or early 1960s. After the church bombing, before the thermos full of holy water, and closer to the latter than the former, in any case.


End file.
